The morning after the soil accusation was disproved, the market lane filled before the sun had cleared the eastern ridge.
Pei had hung Qinghe’s chart beside his own well sample at the entrance. Growers paused to read it before carrying their baskets farther in.
“I dug that well last spring,” Pei told a woman weighing turnips. “The same yellow trace was in the first bucket.”
“You said the court’s jar came from your north field.”
“It did. The channel runs past both.” He tapped the chart. “Qinghe showed us how to compare them. Ask her if you want the whole test.”
The woman glanced toward the clinic, then back to the paper. She bought the turnips and moved on.
Yan stood near the courtyard with Wei’s students, who had come to help keep the traffic lanes clear. He liked seeing the market return to its usual shape: baskets under awnings, a pot of bean broth steaming at the corner, and children threading between adults until Ning caught sight of them and sent them back to their families. The farmers had brought what they could spare. Some had left their names off the sale boards, but the produce was there.
Ning was checking the medicine table. She read each label before setting down a jar, then asked an assistant to keep the fever powders separate from the cough syrup. When a grower offered a sack of dried roots, Ning weighed it herself and paid from the clinic reserve.
